Sons of Van Hellsing
by ProbableImpossibilities
Summary: It's twenty years after the attack on London, and trouble is afoot. However, now it's up to the next generation of heroes to save the day... as soon as they stop bickering amongst themselves. Contains Rammstein, social graces, girl fights, and more!
1. Chapter 1

Sons of Van Hellsing

The bus pulled up in front of the house and ground to a screeching halt. This was the last stop on the route. The door hissed as it opened, and a high-school boy stepped out. As the bus pulled away, he remained standing along the edge of the road, watching the cloud of exhaust stream out from behind the bus. He waited until it was out of sight, then turned and strode into the house. The front door opened into the living room, and he dropped his backpack onto the couch as he walked into the kitchen. "Hey, Mom," he said, and grabbed an apple.

His mother stood by the stove, leaning slightly on the kitchen counter. "Hello, Troy. Did you have a good day at school?"

Troy bit into the apple and answered her with his mouth full. "Yep."

Troy's mother smiled. "That's good." Troy heard someone coming up the stairs, and turned to see his father. "Oh, hey Dad," he said. "I didn't think you'd be home."

His father grinned mischievously. "I got off work early." He walked into the kitchen and began rummaging around in the refrigerator. "Seras, do we have any-"

"No, John," Troy's mother said. "You ate the last of the chocolate yesterday."

Slightly dejected, Troy's father closed the refrigerator door and grabbed an apple, absentmindedly twirling it on his finger like a basketball. "Then I suppose I'll have to stop by Wal-Mart this evening," he said, and grinned again.

John Hiller stood at about six foot five and seemed to have a talent for subconscious intimidation. Even among his own family he was detached and mysterious; Seras had told Troy not to bother changing that. "You're father is a bit of a lone wolf," she had said. "It's just a part of him that can never be let go. Without it, he wouldn't be him." And Troy understood that; he occasionally acted in a similar fashion himself. Still, it was a little difficult having a dad who walked the streets in a trench coat and said every word like it was a world-shattering message, and that you should be grateful he took the time to tell you.

Troy's mother, Seras Hiller, seemed the exact polar opposite. She was short (5' 3") and could be extremely girly at times. She was kind and caring, but sometimes she could be extremely fierce. During these times, you could tell that she was one of those people that have lived through hell and refuse to give in to anything. Whenever Troy (or John, occasionally) was in trouble, Seras was ready to defend him to the bitter end, if necessary.

"John, we can't have chocolate all the time," Mrs. Hiller said, sounding a bit frustrated. "You'll become morbidly obese, and you'll be so fat you won't be able to walk. We'll have to push you around in a wheelchair."

Troy laughed so hard he nearly choked on his apple. "Now that would be really funny to see!" His father shot him one of those _make-fun-of-me-and-die_ looks and bit violently into his apple, ripping off a chunk of flesh and sending juice squirting into the air.

Now, some people are alcoholics; John Hiller was a chocoholic. It was the only flaw in his tough, awe-inspiring personality. You could even say that he had developed a bona-fide psychological dependence for the drug – I mean, food. Every singly employee in the chocolate shop down the street knew him on a first name basis, from the manager to the high school drop-out who mopped the floors and took out the trash.

"You can never have too much chocolate," John said mysteriously, placed the unfinished apple on the table, and glided up the stairs like a wraith. Seras sighed. "My job is harder than it looks, Troy. I have to keep you in check, I have to keep him in check..."

Troy finished with his apple and threw the core in the trash can. "Speaking of keeping me in check, parent/teacher conferences are on Thursday."

Troy's mother looked surprised. "Thursday? I have to work on Thursday."

"Well, why can't Dad go?"

"I don't think you understand, Troy," Seras said, and rubbed her temples. "Sending your father to a parent/teacher conference is like letting an angry bull into a china shop."

"Well, Mrs. Myers has been dying to meet him," Troy said.

John reappeared at the top of the stairs, still slipping his left arm out of his suit jacket. "Well, then," he said, and grinned. "I certainly wouldn't want to disappoint."

Seras threw up her arms in resignation. "Whatever. But don't blame me when something goes horribly wrong." She started towards the living room, muttering under her breath. "This is a bad idea. I can feel it..."

John turned to Troy and winked. "Upsetting your mother is so much fun."

Troy watched Seras walk across the living room, down the stairs, and out of sight. "Yeah. Hilarious," he said, and sighed.

The door to Room 206 was opened by a short, smiling woman wearing a green dress. "Hi! I'm Mrs. Myers," she said cheerfully. "Come on in; you can take a seat in one of the chairs."

John stepped into the classroom, taking in his surroundings with a practiced eye. There were approximately twenty desks in the room, and about ten small armchairs. The latter were clustered about, some here, some there, all appearing to be quite comfortable. It was in such a chair that Mrs. Myers motioned for him to sit; when he did, he slid backwards about half a foot. _Perhaps it would have been wise to note the wheels on the bottom of the chair before sitting down_, John thought to himself. He took a second look about the room, this time looking for possible exits or entrances, strategic firing positions, etc., etc.; this was purely out of habit, as he wasn't expecting an ambush at a parent/teacher conference. Still, always good to be prepared. The only door to the room was on his left, and there was a large, long window to his right. Outside the window was a thick hedge, a stretch of lawn, and then the street, the yellow glow of the street lamp casting little light on the scene. The moon was full and bright, reminding him of nights gone by. His survey of the room completed, John turned his attention back to Mrs. Myers, who was sitting in the chair across from him and leafing through a manila file folder. She looked up and smiled. "Troy has been doing very well in English. His writing skills are superb, especially persuasive essays. Have you talked to him about going into journalism?"

This was all news to John. Journalism? "No," he said. Troy was a writer. Just one more thing he didn't know about his own son... As the night wore on, John began to feel as if a weight was pressing down on his shoulders. He thought it might be guilt, but he'd had too little experience with the sensation to be sure. Had he made a mistake in distancing himself from his son? It felt as though he barely knew him. Still, however much he wanted to be close to his son, Troy could never know who John Hiller really was... who he had been. The knowledge would undoubtedly destroy him. Outside the window, something was rustling in the bushes, and Mrs. Myers was discussing Troy's current grades. Something smelled faintly of peaches, or some kind of fruit. John sniffed the air. Was it fruit? He wasn't so sure anymore. It kind of smelled sickly sweet, like myrrh...

Suddenly, John sat bolt upright. That smell... The rustling in the bushes intensified, and he realized that whatever was making that motion was too large to be an animal. His eyes widened and, with adrenaline pumping through his veins, he leapt (literally) out of his chair. Diving towards Mrs. Myers, he yelled "Get down!" seconds before a shot rang out and the window imploded. As he flew through the air, he covered Mrs. Myers with his body to protect her from the flying glass, taking a position he thought to be effective while keeping any awkwardness out of the picture. He landed on the floor with a thud, and immediately scrambled to a standing position. Whirling around, he found himself facing his assailant; an upright, seven-foot-tall, snarling, hoodie-wearing, drool-and-foam-leaking-out-over-his-jowls wolf.

"Get behind the desk!" he yelled to Mrs. Myers, and ran and jumped over a chair. No time to think. He reached into his jacket and pulled out Jackal, his 13mm. pistol. He swung the gun around over the back of the chair until the muzzle pointed directly at the werewolf's heart, and fired. The werewolf made a gurgling sound and stared at the fist-sized hole in his chest for a few seconds, then toppled forward and landed in a heap of blood and fur.

Mrs. Myers, who had been crouching behind her desk in shocked silence up to this point, suddenly let out a scream that could wake the dead. John ran to her side and cupped his hand around her mouth, stifling her screams. "You must be silent," he whispered into her ear. "Werewolves move in packs. It's impossible to tell how many more of them are out there. Screaming will do neither of us any good. Do you understand?"

Eyes wide in fear, Mrs. Myers stopped trying to scream and nodded slowly.

He removed his hand from her mouth. "Good. Now listen carefully; I want you to get in your car, drive as far away from here as you can, and then call the police. Ask for Seras Hiller; she'll know what to do. Don't stop driving for anything. I assure you, I can take care of myself."

Mrs. Myers nodded again, and started towards the door. She paused and looked over her shoulder. "But how are you-"

John yelled "Just go!", and she went. When the door closed, he knelt slowly to the ground, dipped his finger in the werewolf's blood, and put it to his lips. He then stood up, holstered his pistol, and strode out of the room to face the creatures of the night, a faint smile on his face. "What a perfect night," he whispered to himself, and placed a pair of orange-lensed, wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Troy was sitting in the school's parking lot, listening to Rammstein, when he heard a shot, then another. He was instantly alert, wondering what had happened, if anyone had been hurt. He waited like this for five torturous minutes, minutes that felt like hours. Suddenly, Mrs. Myers flew out of the school, jumped in her car, and sped away, tires squealing. He didn't even have time to ask her what was going on. Troy waited for a couple more minutes, so nervous he was sweating. Somewhere, an owl shrieked, and he shivered; the darkness was becoming oppressive.

"Hark! It was the owl that shrieked; that fatal bellman, which gives the sternest good-night." A shadowy figure emerged from the bushes, orange glasses glowing like some sort of supernatural fire. "The Bird of Hermes is my name, eating my wings to make me tame."

"Dad, is that you?" Troy asked, voice trembling. "I heard shots. What's going on?"

His father stepped into the light of the street lamp, and it was like Troy was looking at an entirely different person. John now wore a pair of wire rimmed glasses that Troy had never seen before, carried both of his 13mm. pistols conspicuously out in the open, and grinned and panted like a frenzied lion high on a taste of antelope and clamoring for more.

"And so it begins," John rasped, barely in control of himself. "After all these twenty silent years, this never-ending day of raging sun; finally, night is falling, bringing rest for the weary day and waking the creatures of the night from their eternal slumber, bidding them come and rejoin the dance."

"Dad..?" Troy asked, feeling a mix of emotions ranging from fear to why-the-crap-is-my-dad-talking-in-a-cryptic-language-type confusion. "What are you saying? Is someone hurt?"

"Not yet." John turned and started walking to the edge of the parking lot. "However, if we don't move now, I can't guarantee that for much longer."

Troy jogged a couple of steps until he was alongside his father. "You still haven't told me what's going on." John didn't answer; instead, he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, scribbled two addresses on it, and handed it to Troy. "Just in case something happens to me," he explained, finally seeming to notice Troy's confusion. "Should you find yourself alone, seek refuge in the Hellsing Manor. If the grounds are being watched, go to the Hotel Megaro and ask for Alexander Anderson. For now, stay close to me." He grinned wickedly, light from the street lamp flashing off his- were those fangs? "We've certainly gotten more than we bargained for at this conference, haven't we?"

With that lovely remark, John jogged onto the sidewalk and headed towards the corner of 5th and Beech. Troy could only follow and wonder what he'd done to deserve this.

_ Paige had two silver katanas. She'd made them herself with the help of Father Ricardo, the smith. She'd spent the entire year of 2008 melting, pouring, and pounding, making sure everything was absolutely perfect. At least ten hours a day were spent in the smithy during this time, and even when she got home, Paige could think of nothing but her katanas. Her father called it OCSD, or Obsessive Compulsive Sword Disorder. He'd made it clear that he would rather have her fight with bayonets, but Paige knew he respected her decision. By the time she finished, the swords were fit to rival any in the world, even her mother's. The blades were strong and light, and shone with a pristine blue sheen. The hilts, while not particularly ornate, were wonderfully grip-able and nothing to be scoffed at. Paige's katanas were her prized possessions; she sharpened and polished them every week. Not so much as a speck could be found on either blade. She spent nearly six hours every day training, consumed by desire to master the blade. Paige didn't go to school like others her age, and she didn't dream of finding love or becoming rich and famous. She only wanted one thing, the same thing those in her family had been striving for (and often accomplishing) for thousands of years. Paige wanted, more than anything, to kill a vampire._

Troy wondered, for the tenth time in so many minutes, if they were going in circles. His father's choice of route was becoming almost arbitrary, taking side streets and alleys at random. Troy knew they were running from something, but John had refused to disclose exactly what, and the constant sprinting to keep up with his father's jog was wearing his patience thin. "Dad," he panted. "Where exactly... are we... going..?"

Suddenly, John stopped and stood dead still; Troy found himself unable to stop and nearly plowed into him. After regaining his footing, Troy took advantage of the small respite and leaned against the brick alley wall, breathing heavily. His father stood, barely breathing at all, head cocked as if listening for something. After a minute or so of total silence, he heard it; a long, low howl, emanating from somewhere to their left, maybe ten blocks away. A few seconds later it was answered by a second howl, much closer than the first. "Dang," John said. (Okay, so it wasn't 'dang'; just trying to keep this PG-13). "We have to leave, Troy. Now."

"What was that?" Troy asked.

"Wolves."

"But there aren't any wolves in London!"

"I know." His father cocked both his pistols, the two clicks sounding rather ominous. "I know you don't understand, but you're just going to have to trust me. There are some things I haven't told you, although I probably should have; however, the past is finally catching up with me, and I'm afraid you'll have to bear the brunt of it. But for right now, I just have to make sure you don't die, so stick close to me and stop asking questions. Most importantly, don't panic. It's not time to panic."

Suddenly, a gigantic wolf came tearing around the corner into the alley, heading straight for father and son. Troy was paralyzed. "It's time to panic."

John grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the alley, the werewolf hot on his heels. They zigzagged through the maze of alleys, dodging homeless urchins and stray cats, the werewolf loudly salivating and snapping behind them. John suddenly turned a corner and ran smack into three more werewolves. The sudden shock experienced by both parties allowed John barely sufficient time to back away before all three werewolves lunged at him. Troy, who had kept on running and was out of his father's line of sight, saw John fly from the other alley, pistols in hand and blood leaking from large claw marks in his shoulder. "Keep running!" he yelled to Troy. "I'll catch up with you!"

Troy turned and sprinted down the alley. Behind him he heard a shot, then a whimper as one of the four werewolves went down. Presently, his father was back in front, but he was beginning to slow down. He'd holstered Jackal and was clutching his shoulder as he ran; the gashes were deep, and blood spurted in spite of his slapdash "tourniquet".

"Dad!" Troy gasped. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." John's voice was husky from the pain.

"Dad, we need to find a hospital!"

"No we don't!" To prove his point, John gritted his teeth, whirled around, and dispatched two wolves with one bullet. "I don't need a hospital," he said. To reiterate, he shot two more. But they were pouring into the alley now from all directions, and mottled fur blocked all the exits. John just couldn't shoot them fast enough; he knew it and so did they. There was only one thing that could be done. He swung his gun around until he faced the wall directly behind him; Troy stood about a foot away from a squalid window. Now staring down his own father's cross-hairs, Troy's eyes widened in terror, and John squeezed the trigger. Expecting to find a bullet in him, Troy was a bit surprised when the window imploded. John pulled out Jackal and tossed it to him; the jet-black gun was cool to the touch and extremely heavy. He just stared at it, unsure of what to do with the weapon. Sure, he'd fired it plenty of times, but not at anything that stood on two legs.

"Go through that window!" his father shouted at him. "Don't worry about me, because you're a sap and I know you will. Get out of here while you still can!"

Troy didn't move. "I won't leave you!"

His father grunted; although Troy couldn't see his eyes, he was sure John was rolling them. "Stop being a drama queen. You're embarrassing me." He picked Troy up under the arms and threw him through the broken window. Troy picked himself up and mumbled, "Sorry to mess up your mojo. I'll just leave, then." He turned his back and began walking away from the window. Behind him, John said three words, so softly he had to strain to make them out. "I... love you." Troy kept walking, tears welling in his eyes. That was the first time he'd ever heard him say that.

Back in the alley, he could hear shots, and the snarling of wolves. Suddenly the shots ceased, the snarling increased in intensity, and Troy heard what sounded like a pair of glasses shattering on the sidewalk.

John had dumped Troy into what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, which was good. He wouldn't have to worry about waking up the occupants because there were none, save a couple of rats. Picking his was through the dust and cobwebs, Troy realized he had no idea where the door was; it was around midnight, and far too dark to make anything out. He blindly felt his way around the warehouse until his vision adjusted, fumbling about like a drunk and crashing into empty crates. No one had ever accused Troy Hiller of being graceful. Outside the warehouse, the werewolves had begun to settle down and were slowly but surely moving away from the building. If there was a time to make his escape, it was now.

Suddenly, directly in front of Troy a sliver of blue light appeared, then widened as a creaky, rusty door was slowly opened. "Hello?" Troy said uncertainly, bringing Jackal up to firing position. The door paused, only partway open, and hovered there for a moment. Troy felt a bead of sweat trickle slowly down the side of his face. Time seemed to be standing completely still, and not a sound could be heard anywhere. The warehouse was silent as the grave.

The door flew open with a bang, and a werewolf stood silhouetted against the moonlight. He was standing upright and wore a blood-stained 'That's what she said' T-shirt. "Easy, kid." he said, grinning wickedly and exposing yellow, rotting fangs. "Put that thing away. Somebody might get hurt."

Troy started to feel something welling up inside of him; it might have been rage, or anger, but it was more than just a feeling. It took control of him, and his legs straightened, his arm stopped shaking, and he gripped Jackal so firmly his knuckles turned white. "Yeah," he said, in a voice not quite his own. "You." The feeling crashed over Troy like a tidal wave, and he pulled the trigger. Then he pulled it again. And again.

The werewolf fell to the ground and ceased to move, but he kept shooting. He pulled the trigger until he ran out of bullets, and there was only the dull click of an empty clip. Slowly, he reloaded, then walked until he stood beside the dead werewolf. "That's for my dad," he said, then strode through the door and into the night.

He closed the warehouse door, and leaned against it, trembling. What had he done? What had come over him? It was all too much, for both his mind and his body. Troy's vision started to blacken, and he was seeing spots. He slid down the door until he was sitting with his head between his knees; Jackal fell from his fingers and clattered on the asphalt. Then, everything went black.

_Malcolm Winston Gregory Hellsing hated his father. He'd never met the man, but his mother's description of him filled him with fury. Malcolm's father was a world-class jerk who'd married his mother, got her knocked up, and then left her for a slut police girl, the worst part of all this being that they'd known each other since she was a little girl. On top of that, Malcolm's father was a monster; a Nosferatu. That was what Malcolm really hated him for; the fact the he was him. He'd asked Integra, his mother, why she, the head of the largest vampire-hunting organization in the world, had married a Nosferatu. She'd sat in silence for a long time, then told him, "It was fine when he was a vampire. But when the Marshall Satellites went into orbit, when I ceased to be his master, something changed. We both wanted control, and we fought constantly. After a while, I just stopped speaking to him, so he found comfort in someone else. It ended with both of us sitting in a courtroom, me three months pregnant, him with my divorce papers stapled to his forehead. And that was that."_

_ But Malcolm didn't think that was that. On occasion he'd find Integra sitting alone, staring into space with this sad look on her face. Since his mother wasn't one to let such "weakness" as sorrow show, he knew his father had hurt her, hurt her much more than she let on. That's why Malcolm had sworn one night before the altar that he would find his father and tell him just how much he hated him. Even if it was the last thing he ever did, he was going to find John Hiller._

Troy woke up with a splitting headache. He hadn't been out too long; it was still dark. Moaning softly, he groped around until his hand rested on Jackal, still lying in the same place he had dropped it. He got up slowly, leaning on the warehouse wall for support. Once upright, he fished around in his pocket until he found the slip of paper John had handed him in the parking lot. There were two addresses on it; the first was halfway across the city, and it was impossible to find a taxi cheap enough to take you that far with the spare change Troy had in his pocket. The second address was in Camden, less than ten blocks away. Under the street name was scrawled 'Alexander Anderson', and if his father had not particularly wanted to write it there. _Well,_ Troy thought as he looked at his watch, _I hope Mr. Anderson won't mind a guest at five in the morning_. He set off at a brisk jog, not the least bit rested from his "nap". Even though he worked out every day and was on the track team at school, after what he'd been through, ten blocks seemed like a marathon. By the time he reached the Megaro Hotel, he was limping at a snail's pace and it was quarter of six. He opened the hotel door and walked into the lobby.

There was no one at the front desk, so Troy took a look around, went behind the desk, and started leafing through the guest register. The register was well-organized, so it was easy to find the room Anderson was staying in. People were beginning to wake up and smell the breakfast, so he put everything back where he found it and took an elevator to the third floor. On his way to Room 304, he nearly ran into an old American man in a bathrobe. The man told him to watch where he was going, and pushed past him into the elevator. Troy sighed. Tourists could be so rude sometimes. He reached the door to Room 304 and checked for a "Do Not Disturb" sign. Seeing there was none, he knocked on the door and desperately hoped whoever was in there would be kind enough to let him in.

The door opened slowly, and Troy found himself staring up at the tallest man he'd ever seen. He realized his mouth was hanging open, so he hastily closed it. The man was dressed in a long, grey trench coat and a black shirt, and he looked a little sleepy. "I'm sorry," Troy said. "Did I wake you up?"

"Not at all, lad," he said pleasantly. "Ah just haven't had mah coffee yet. Now, what can Ah help ye with?"

"Are you Alexander Anderson?"

"Aye."

Troy pulled the sip of paper out of his pocket as if it would prove he had a good reason to be here. "My dad told me to come here if something happened to him."

Anderson seemed confused, but not much. "An' did somethin' happen to him?"

"We were attacked by werewolves."

Again, Anderson wasn't extremely taken aback. It made Troy wonder if this kind of stuff happened to him often. "Werewolves, huh? Tha's pretty serious. Ye say yer father sent ye here?"

Troy nodded.

"Tha's interestin'. Who is he?"

Troy hesitated, eyes flitting about the hallway.

Anderson smiled knowingly. "It's okay, lad, ye can tell me."

Troy took a deep breath. "John Hiller. I'm Troy, by the way."

The effect on Anderson was instantaneous. He stared at Troy as if coming to some horrible realization, his breathing was coming faster and harder, and he fingered a silver cross that hung around his neck. "Good Lord," he mumbled, "Ye look just like him..."

Troy was beginning to feel nervous, so he felt he needed to say something. "I'm sorry, but he never told me about any of this. To be honest, I'm really confused, and... a little scared."

Anderson glared at him with a flash of pure revulsion, and Troy felt the air go out of him. They stood there for a few silent moments, Anderson glaring with all the hatred he could muster, Troy quaking in his Converses. Finally, Anderson's detestation faded into a strange sort of pity, and Troy could breathe again. Anderson opened the door a little wider and beckoned Troy inside. "Ah think ye'd better come in; we've got some things tae discuss."

Troy walked through the door hesitantly, unsure of what he'd gotten himself into. The hotel room was nice, for Camden, at least. Really, there was nothing remarkable about the room itself; he could have been in any one of the millions of hotel rooms in London, except for the swords. They were everywhere; on countertops, on the wall, on the floor, on the couch, on top of the TV, and in the cupboards. There were swords of all kinds and nationalities: rapiers, katanas, broadswords, sabers, sickles, daggers; single-handed, double-handed, you name it, it was there. There was even a Japanese pike with red feathers and ribbon sticking out of a flower pot filled with potting soil and some tall grass. "I didn't know they let you keep weapons in these rooms," Troy said hesitantly, wanting to break the ice but unwilling to provoke his host. Luckily, Anderson seemed to have realized that Troy wasn't a threat and regained control of himself, for his former good humor had returned and he gave a soft chuckle. "Ah pay the maid a couple hundred pounds tae stay out. Goin' on vacation gets harder every year, of course, what with the bad global economy an' all that."

Troy just assumed he was being serious. He wondered how in the world anyone could get this kind of stuff through customs, but he wasn't about to ask. He was led into the typical hotel room kitchen/dining room area and motioned to sit at the mini table. Troy checked the chair carefully for sharp weaponry before sitting down; he found two silver throwing stars and laid them carefully on the table.

"Ah," Anderson said, deftly swiping the throwing stars off the table. "Now those are Paige's. She's always leavin' her stuff lyin' around in odd places." He placed them on the counter, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Suddenly serious, he leaned forward and folded his hands in front of him so his elbows rested on the table; it reminded Troy of something from Law and Order. "How much, exactly, do ye know about yer father, Troy?"

"Not a lot, I'm afraid."

"That's okay. Just tell me everything ya know."

So he did. He told Anderson about how his dad wasn't home much, and how when he was home, he spent most of his time at his desk, working on God knows what or just plain old brooding. He told him about how he could hear his parents arguing about him, whether how they were raising him was "the right thing" or not. He told him about his dad's little quirks: he loves chocolate, he's afraid of getting sunburned, he won't drink anything red, he hates all vampire movies except the old 1930s _Dracula_, and there's a red hat and trench-coat that he never wears sitting in his closet. He told him about the events of that night: the school, the orange glasses, the werewolves, the blood. Through all of this, Anderson listened intently, his green eyes focused on Troy as though boring through him to his soul. When Troy finished his narrative, ending with how he'd come to this hotel, Anderson sat in stony silence, totally lost in thought. Finally he looked up, pity in his eyes. "Ye really dinnae know, do ye?" he asked softly.

"Know what?" Troy asked, almost whispering. They sat there in complete silence, letting the tension sink in. Troy could tell that what was going to be said next would change his life forever. As the silent seconds passed, the tension built, and Anderson took in a breath to say something-

"Dad! The stupid soda machine's not workin'!" The door flew open, and a teenage girl wearing a black cami and military boots stomped into the hotel room, fury in her green eyes. "I musta stood there for ten whole minutes waiting on that blasted contraption, an' all that incompetent son of a handyman can tell me is that he'll get to it eventually! I told him he'd better; I want my Mountain Dew!" She slammed the door, took a step inside, and noticed Troy for the first time. "Who in the blazes-?"

"Paige, this is Troy," Anderson interjected. "He's here under some, uh, _unique_ circumstances."

Paige eyed Troy with suspicion and disdain. She had short, boyish, crimson-red hair, was dressed in all black, and wore no jewelry save two spiked cuffs on her wrists and a silver cross around her neck. Troy noticed she had faint, silvery lines running up and down her arms in ornate, spider-webbed swirls and curves. "What sort of circumstances?" she asked, sizing him up.

"Werewolves," Troy said, not willing to elaborate further until he knew what kind of person this girl was.

Just like her father, Paige wasn't surprised. "Is it that pack we've been monitoring? It would certainly explain their odd movements recently."

Anderson nodded. "It's very likely. They musta had their beady lil' eyes on Troy this whole time. Remember that place on 56th Street they kept circling around..?"

Troy caught on the same time Paige did. "I live on 56th Street!" he said. Paige grinned wickedly. "Now we know where you live..."

"Anyway," Anderson continued. "This brings me tae mah next point." He got up and whispered something in Paige's ear. Her eyes widened, but she didn't say anything. Anderson sat back down, and leaned across the table towards Troy. They were back to where they'd left off. "Troy," Anderson said. "'John Hiller' is just an alias. It's a name your father made up, probably to hide from his past, or to hide his past from you."

"What do you mean?" Troy asked.

"Yer father's real name is Vlad Dracula the Third, an' Ah've been hunting him down for the past twenty years."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_It was the year 1778, and the weather at Valley Forge could not have been any more unpleasant if it tried (and it _was_ trying). A snowstorm was in the midst of unleashing its wintry fury on the encampment, and almost every soldier had retreated to his tent. At the edge of camp a small fire blazed, and two men huddled near it, trying to keep warm. They sat on opposite sides of the fire, not saying a word, simply staring into the flames. Without looking up, one man asked the other, "You goin' back to your tent?"_

_ "No," the other replied, and the contest began._

_ Neither said a word, but both refused to be the first to give in and go back. They sat there in the bitter cold and swirling ice for four hours, neither giving any quarter. Finally, when their fingers were frozen solid and their throats were so cold it hurt to breathe, both men looked up. The instant their eyes met, they realized why their contest had begun. Two pairs of red eyes stared at each other over the dying embers of their fire, and the two soldiers laughed as hard as their frosted lungs would allow. They laughed and laughed, and both knew they could not have found a better companion for their frozen fire. "What is your name, Brother?" one man asked, pulling a pair of white gloves over his fingerless wool ones. _

_ "Private Ezra Stevenson," the other replied, and brushed his stringy blond hair out of his eyes. "An' pray tell, what's yours, Brother?"_

_ The first man stood up, brushed the snow off of his uniform, and helped the other to his feet. "John Hiller, Lieutenant," he said, and both soldiers started their silent journey back to their tents. As they headed back to camp, the snow piled over the ashes of their fire and filled in their footprints, until it seemed as if they had never been there._

"So, you're telling me that my dad – quirky college prof who sits at his desk all day and eats M&Ms – is a vampire. And not only is he a vampire, but he's Dracula. The vampire of all vampires." Troy leaned back in his chair and gave Anderson his I-don't-believe-a-word-you've-just-told-me look. "No offense, dude, but I think you're a couple of fries short of a Happy Meal."

Paige folded her arms and gave him the evil eye. "Do you always act like a punk when you're confused?"

Troy glared right back. "I don't think you realize just how much crap I've been through today, but I'm done just sitting here and putting up with more from you. I thought you were going to help me, not spoon-feed me this load of bull." He stood up, shoved in his chair, and started walking towards the door.

"Where will ye go, boy?" Anderson asked. "Ye dinnae think ye can just waltz on home an' act like this never happened, do ye?"

"No," Troy replied. "I know I can't go home. But my dad gave me two addresses, remember?" He pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. "I'm going to find someone who will help me." He walked over to the door, and looked over his shoulder. "Thanks for wasting my time. I can show myself out." He reached for the doorknob.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his head, and he fell to his knees. He felt like his skull was being stabbed over and over, and something akin to white lightning flashed across his vision. He started to scream, and his entire body began convulsing. As he lay writhing on the floor, Troy could faintly hear Anderson calling his name. Then, he slipped into the blessed release of unconsciousness.

"Troy. Get up, Troy. Wake up..."

Troy struggled to open his eyes; his lids felt as heavy as lead. The voice was female, but it wasn't Paige's (thank God). He managed to get his eyes open halfway, and blinked a couple of times until the world came into focus. He was no longer in the Megaro Hotel, that much was certain. He was lying in a bed with beige sheets in what looked like somebody's basement. There was a woman leaning over him dressed in a business suit and glasses. Her thin face, framed by long, white-blond hair, showed almost no emotion. "Welcome back to consciousness, Troy," she said. "You've been out for almost a day."

"Wha... what happened..?" he mumbled, barely finding the strength to get his mouth open. "Who..?"

"I am Sir Integra Fairbrook Winngates Hellsing, Director of the Hellsing Organization. This is our headquarters." She held up the slip of paper Troy's father had given him, now completely crinkled and grimy and barely legible. "Your father was trying to send you here. It was a good thing Anderson picked this up, or he never would have known to bring you to us."

Troy sat up slowly; every muscle in his body ached. "Hellsing Organization?" he asked. "What's that?"

Integra sighed. "Anderson said you didn't know much, but I didn't think you wouldn't know anything. The duty of the Hellsing Organization is to protect England, Her Majesty, and the Protestant Church from the forces of darkness. For the first hundred years our primary targets were vampires, but since vampires are now all but extinct, we've been dealing mostly with werewolves and that sort of thing."

"Vampires again?" Troy moaned. "You people don't ever give up, do you? Haven't you finished torturing my sanity yet?"

"You have to believe me, Troy." Integra's eyes flashed, and Troy got the feeling she was used to getting her own way, by whatever means necessary. "Vampires are very real. If you can't believe that, you won't survive much longer."

"What do you mean?"

"See for yourself." She handed Troy a mirror.

"What's this supposed to prove?" Troy asked, trying not to appear as freaked out as he felt. Integra didn't answer; she just nodded her head towards the mirror. _Okay_, Troy thought to himself. _Here goes..._

He looked at his reflection, screamed, and dropped the mirror. "I – I have red eyes!" he stammered. "A – And... f – fa – fa-"

"Calm yourself, Troyius! You're making this harder than it needs to be. Just breathe. In and out, Troy, in and out..."

He was hyperventilating.

"Try to relax," Integra told him. "Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth."

Troy did as instructed, and slowly but surely managed to calm himself down. "You called me 'Troyius'," he said. "How'd you know my full name?"

"Your father was the Hellsing Organization's ultimate weapon since its formation," Integra said, standing upright and straightening her suit jacket. "I would be seriously remiss if I didn't know your name."

"So it's true, then. My dad really is..."

"Yes." Integra pulled a cigarette out of her pocket and lit up. "I don't suppose you listened to Anderson long enough to hear a full explanation?"

Troy shook his head. Integra put the cigarette in her mouth, took a long draw, and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Then I'll start from the beginning. It all really started with the attack on London; twenty years ago, artificially created vampires led by a monster calling himself Incognito attempted to destroy the city. Your father, known back then as Alucard, decimated their forces, and the operation was laid to waste. But the damage to the city itself was far too severe to be overlooked. Many high-ranking members of the government thought that Hellsing could no longer control the vampire problem.

"It was then that a young woman named Doctor Marshall stepped forward and announced that she had found a cure for what she called 'the vampire condition'. It turns out that vampire-ism is actually a genetic mutation, and it can be turned on and off like any other gene. Doctor Marshall discovered that the stimuli needed to turn the vampire gene off could be imitated by an electronic signal, and that such a signal could be broadcast world-wide by satellites in orbit around Earth. Constant broadcast of this signal would effectively and cheaply eliminate vampires from the face of the earth without killing anyone. Am I making sense so far?"

"Yeah, go on," Troy said.

Integra took another puff on her cigarette. "Now, it's been twenty years, and the satellites are failing. We have no idea why. What's worse, the malfunctions are turning normal humans into mutant freaks we've given the courtesy of calling 'werewolves' for lack of a better word. They can transform at any time they choose and possess more strength and speed than true werewolves, but their average lifespan is only about five years. These things are what attacked you and your father. Their movements and organization show them not to be rogue, but rather, working for someone. We have no idea who. Since we haven't found Alucard's body, we can assume that he has been taken captive. Whoever is controlling these werewolves obviously wants him for something, but..."

"No idea what?"

"Exactly." Integra picked up the mirror off the floor and laid it on a dresser. "Now, I expect you'll want to know what's happened to you. Remember that vampire-ism is a gene. So, even though your parents were human when you were born, the gene was still there. Since the Marshall Satellites were unable, for whatever reason, to continue broadcasting the signal, the gene that's been dormant since your conception has finally come back to life."

"So... I'm a vampire," Troy said, gingerly running his tongue over his teeth. "Dracula's son."

"Yes."

Troy looked up at Integra. "I know this sounds weird," he said, "but have you ever been in a situation that makes total sense when it shouldn't?"

She looked down at him, holding her cigarette between two fingers with a practiced grip. "Once," she told him. "The day I met your father."

"So, how does Anderson factor into all this?" Troy asked, trying to get away from what was clearly becoming an awkward subject. "I mean, I don't really know anything about him, except that he has strange tastes in room décor."

Integra put her cigarette back in her mouth. "To put it simply, Alexander Anderson is a vampire hunter. In fact, he's been bio-engineered to have regenerative capabilities, which means he can heal completely from almost any injury, making him virtually invincible. He was previously employed by the Vatican, under a special operations unit known as Section Thirteen, or Iscariot. However, the archbishop in charge of Iscariot, Enrico Maxwell, was killed during the attack on London. To this day, no one knows what he was doing here, except perhaps Anderson, and he's not talking. In any case, the launching of the Marshall Satellites coupled with the death of the archbishop gave the Vatican cause to shut Iscariot down, permanently. And so, Alexander Anderson disappeared from the world of organized vampire hunting. I have to admit, that was one of the happiest days of my life. The Vatican and Great Britain have always hated each other, and to me, Iscariot was never anything more than a gigantic pain in Hellsing's a- well, you get the picture. Honestly, I have no idea why Anderson didn't kill you when you showed up on his doorstep. Perhaps he's had a change of heart after twenty years. He and Paige are staying in the room across from yours, actually."

Troy flinched visibly. "Paige is here?"

Integra cast him a sympathetic glance. "Yes; she's such a wonderful, bright ball of sunshine, isn't she? From what I can tell, she has regenerative capabilities just as strong as her father's, if not stronger. However, it would appear she only has a Scottish burr when she's extremely angry. That's a good thing, I suppose. One can only take so much verbal haggis in one's lifetime."

There was a knock at the door. "Enter," Integra said. The door swung open, and a boy about Troy's age wearing a very expensive suit, an expensive watch (probably Rolex), and a look of detached arrogance stepped into the room and dipped his head in deference to Integra. "The complete structural layout of MS-1, along with the extra data you requested, is ready and awaiting your analysis," he said, and something vaguely resembling a smirk crept across his features. "Vivian also told me to convey the following information: Sir Penwood has requested that we remain within a certain budget for our current endeavors. He would prefer it if expenses did not exceed ten million pounds."

"Only ten?" Integra asked. "Have they cut our funding again without informing me?"

"No, the members of the Round Table are not bold enough to antagonize you so soon after that last thrashing you gave them. Sir Penwood has simply gotten tired of seeing everything he supplies us go up in smoke, is all. I'm sure Vivian can heckle at least another five million out of him, should it suit our interests."

"Excellent. Thank you, Malcolm." Integra turned to Troy and motioned towards Malcolm. "This is my son, Malcolm Winston Gregory Hellsing, sole heir to the Hellsing family. He knows nearly as much about this business as I do, and he's fully capable of answering any questions you may have."

Troy held out his hand. "Hi, I'm Troy. Nice to meet you."

Malcolm deliberately abstained from taking Troy's hand and stood there with his arms folded, as if Troy might have some disgusting disease. "Charmed, I'm sure," he said icily.

Integra turned and gave Malcolm one of those stop-it-and-be-polite-or-you're-grounded-forever looks that all mothers seem to have mastered. "Malcolm," she said. "Play nice." She turned back to Troy. "I'll leave Malcolm to finish explaining what's going on, and then you may do as you see fit until luncheon. If you need me, I will be in my study." With that, Integra Fairbrook Winngates Hellsing turned and left the room, leaving Malcolm and Troy glaring at each other in stony silence. Finally, Malcolm spoke up. "I won't stand here any longer than I need to, so pay close attention. We are in the midst of examining Marshall Satellite One, otherwise known as MS-1, and things will be exceedingly bad for you if you interfere with that process in any way. So, don't bother my mother; if you need anything, ask Vivian. She's the maid, but more importantly, she is our resident technology expert and manages the finances for our operations, so don't think you're any better than her, because you're not. Also, try not to leave the lower levels; you'll find that sunshine is not the best thing for your health. Which reminds me... please try to convince Anne-Marie out of cutting herself. Those carpets were imported from India, you know."

"Who's Anne-Marie?" Troy asked. Then he thought about it. "Do you mean Paige?" Malcolm nodded and rolled his eyes. Troy was confused. "I didn't know she cut herself. I didn't know her name was Anne-Marie, either."

"She's a regenerator, so the cutting isn't really an issue. That's where she got those scars from, you know. As for her name, I have no idea why everyone calls her 'Paige'. It has nothing to do with her actual name." Malcolm turned, opened the door, and looked over his shoulder. "You must be hungry, what with being dead and all. Lunch is held upstairs in the dining room at precisely twelve noon, so I suggest you bring a hat or something. It's awfully bright in there, even for me. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

The door slammed shut, and Troy flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. "Nice to meet you, too," he mumbled.

_Joan had always been a scientist. She'd been fiddling with beakers and test tubes since she was old enough to hold them. It was her dream to grow up and discover something fantastic for the good of humanity; so, soon after graduating from college, she took to the streets and began reaching out to the homeless and destitute. She had no idea how many people she'd helped, but she didn't care. She would pull all-nighters at the shelters, and she drover herself to the point of bodily exhaustion every day, all in the name of making a difference. There was not a single person in all of New York City that was more dedicated than her. _

_ One night, she and her parents were walking along a side street when they encountered a homeless man lying on a dirty mat. Joan's father bent down to give him some money, but the man pulled out a gun and shot him in the head. Neither Joan nor her mother had time to react before he was upon them, slamming them against the alley wall. He raped Joan's mother first, and as soon as he had finished with her, he put a bullet in her head as well. Joan was too shocked to scream; she just stood there, limp and helpless, and the face of what she'd sacrificed so much for took her virginity from her. _

_ Luckily for her, this particular homeless man was being watched by the police, due to a history of similar violent mental breakdowns. The squad arrived just in time to save her life, but a part of Joan wished they hadn't. She'd realized, in that dark, bloody alley, that "the good of humanity" was just a sham. Humanity didn't need to be saved. It needed to be destroyed._

Troy sat at the table and stared in silence at what had been placed before him. It was lunch time, and the dining room reverberated with awkward silence. Integra was drilling him with a blank stare; Anderson wouldn't look up and fiddled with his salad; Vivian kept herself eternally busy to have an excuse for not sitting down; Paige crinkled up her nose and started stabbing her food.

"Well, aren't you going to drink it?" Integra asked, giving nothing away.

Troy couldn't keep his eyes off his plate. It was like he was completely brain-dead. "It's... blood..." he mumbled.

"It's just medical transfusion blood, Troy. Besides, trying to eat human food will make you puke your innards. You need your strength. Drink." There was a tone in Integra's voice that made Troy hesitant to refuse her. He slowly picked up the bag of medical blood. Every eye in the room was fixed on him. He ripped open the tip, slowly brought it up to his mouth, and froze. "I can't do this," he whispered. "I can't do this..."

Integra drilled him with an intense gaze. "Drink," she said.

"What if he does nae want tae drink?" Anderson asked softly.

"He must. He will either drink, or perish. There can be no half-way or partial commitments."

The room was totally silent. Troy couldn't move. "I can't..." he whispered.

Paige suddenly slammed down her fork, stood up, grabbed her knife, and stomped out of the room. Troy looked around at the rest of the room's occupants. Since no one was moving to follow her, he put the untouched bag of blood back on his plate and left the dining room. This left Integra and Anderson alone at the table, since Vivian was in the kitchen and Malcolm had eaten earlier.

Integra put down her fork and sighed. "What are you doing here, Father Anderson?"

Anderson put down his fork as well and folded his hands. "Ah'm nae longer a 'Father'; leastways, not ae priest."

"Because of Paige?"

"Aye." Anderson wouldn't meet Integra's gaze. "Ah met her mother at the orphanage. She was the kindest, gentlest, most amazing woman Ah've ever met. Ah was going tae ask her to marry me. But she... was gone afore Ah ever got the chance. Died in childbirth." He paused for a moment, then continued. "Troy's a good lad. He does nae deserve this."

Integra pulled out another cigarette. "He's going to look for his father, you know. He'll need some help."

"Why nae send Malcolm with him?"

"I will. But you've seen how those two interact; they can't stand each other. Besides, the presence of an adult would make things look less suspicious. Anderson, I simply must ask this favor of you. I can't leave, and Vivian was never meant for field work. Besides, Iscariot is gone, and you're itching for action. I can see it in your eyes, in the way your daughter sulks around like a caged bear. It's time we put an end to this petty squabbling and began acting like adults. Adults work together."

Anderson sat, lost in thought, for a long time. Integra had know he would never agree to this easily, but what could she do? Without supervision, Malcolm and Troy were liable to destroy each other. And, although she hadn't mentioned this to Anderson, she just didn't think Malcolm was ready to go out on his own. He was still a teenager, and he was terribly bitter about the fact that he had never met his father. She wasn't sure his raging hormones could handle that kind of stress. That was why she'd thrown her pride out the window and asked Anderson to help her. He was a neutral party as well as an expert exorcist, and he seemed to have developed an affinity for Troy, probably brought on by pity or something like that. The fact that Anderson was sitting in Hellsing Headquarters and not destroying anything let her know she could trust him. So, Integra sat and waited for his response, knowing everything hinged on his decision.

Finally, Anderson looked up. "Fine. But dinnae think this will ever happen again. Just this once. Ah'll nae have ye tryin' tae convert me tae yer Protestant foolishness. Ah may nae be a priest, but Ah'm still Catholic."

Integra smiled. "Don't worry, you have my word of honor I'll do nothing of the sort. We do serve the same God, after all." She stretched out her hand. "Glad to have you with us, Alexander Anderson."

He took it, and they shook. As both went their separate ways, Vivian, who was just leaving the kitchen, could barely hear someone with a distinct Scottish burr mumbling, "What in merciful Heaven's name have Ah done?"

Troy found Paige sitting on the railing of a veranda, drawing on her left arm with her steak knife. She didn't look up, so he walked over and sat down next to her. "You know, that knife was meant for food," he said.

She still didn't look up. "Go away."

He just sat there for a bit, humming something. Then he decided to try again. "Do the designs mean anything? You know, like symbols or whatever?"

She still didn't look up. "You're not wanted. Get lost."

He waited for a minute or so, just watching the clouds roll by. It was so quiet, and the weather couldn't have been nicer. "So, why do you do it?" he asked. "Doesn't your dad care if you cut yourself?"

It seemed he had struck a nerve, and Paige put the knife down and glared at him. "My dad cares about me," she growled. "And what I do is my business, not yours. Sae shut up an' leave me alone, ye snivellin' monster!"

Troy watched the cuts on her arm heal themselves in a matter of seconds, leaving behind swirling scars. "You really think I'm a monster?" he asked. "I didn't ask for this, you know."

"Doesn't matter whether you asked for it or not," she snapped. "You're still a vampire. That makes you my enemy, and an enemy of God."

"God?" Troy laughed. "There is no God. God is dead. Besides, even if there was a God, why would he let things like death, war, and disease happen? See, either there is no God, or he doesn't give a crap about any of us. I'm not going to put my trust in some high and mighty celestial no-show."

"Then you truly are my enemy," Paige said, "and we have nothing left to discuss. Now, get your rotting heathen carcass back to where it came from, or I'll cut off your head with a plastic butter knife and send you to the Lake of Sulfur myself!"

Troy jumped off the railing and back onto the veranda. "I guess that's just what I get for trying to be nice. See ya 'round."

"Beat it!" Paige roared, and Troy ran back inside like his pants were on fire. She picked up her knife and tried to go back to cutting, but she found herself suddenly, strangely, and inexplicably distracted.


	4. Chapter 4

"This, my friends, is MS-1"

Integra had assembled the entire group in her study, and Vivian was explaining the three-dimensional satellite model being displayed on the SmartBoard. "It's really nothing remarkable; simply a piece of bland machinery used to broadcast a brilliant signal. We did, however, find something quite out of the ordinary: a complex tracking agent that is remotely sabotaging the whole system."

Vivian pressed a spot on the board, and the diagram zoomed in to show a small, metallic computer chip. "400 gigabytes of pure evil. That chip can't be removed without destroying the entire satellite. We did manage to trace its manufacture to a company called ROM-DEX, a small operation with only one factory in San Francisco. Now, we don't know if ROM-DEX made the chip or not, but Sir Integra still wants to send someone to investigate the factory. That's where all of you come in. You'll be travelling to San Francisco by jet, and when you land, what you do next is up to you. Just make sure you find out of ROM-DEX is behind the sabotage chip before you come back."

"And if we should run intae any werewolves..?" Anderson asked speaking more to Integra than Vivian.

"Search and destroy," Integra said. "All enemies are to be crushed underfoot. Do not allow any wolf you encounter to survive."

Paige grinned. "So, we're going on a hunt," she said. "Sounds like fun!"

Troy spoke up. "We're still going to look for my dad, though, right?"

"First, we need to find out who's holding him, and the only way to do that is to figure out who is creating these werewolves," Integra said. "Don't worry, Troy; I'm sure your father can take care of himself. Now, I have a car waiting to take you to the airport. Go, and Godspeed!"

_ London was in the process of being decimated. Freak vampires had overrun the city, and the demon Sett was on the rampage, destroying whole sections of the city at a time. Enrico Maxwell stood on the bank of the Thames, watching the roof-top battle between Alucard and Incognito unfold. The vampire Alucard had, through his dark magic or whatever, turned the river to blood, and Maxwell found himself once again amazed at just how disgusting these creatures were. How dare they, those Hellsing fools, call themselves servants of God and still employ these loathsome vermin? But no matter. Anderson would take care of them soon enough._

_ Suddenly, a purple bolt of light came streaking straight towards him. Sett. He managed to dive out of its way, but he went too far and tumbled down the bank and into the river. The river of blood. He tried to swim back to safety, but the current was too strong. It pulled him under, and blood rushed into his lungs. He was drowning. He knew he would die if something drastic wasn't done immediately, so he struggle to reach his pocket. His vision was going black, and he was tossed about like a rag doll on the crimson waves. Finally, he managed to pull out a syringe filled with silvery fluid. He plunged it into his wrist, and watched the liquid flow into his veins (Okay, so he couldn't __actually__ see inside his veins. Picky, picky, picky). Then the world faded away, and his limp body was carried downstream and pulled out of sight._

Malcolm entered the private jet to find Paige and her father sitting next to each other. He chose a seat across from them, took out a Sudoku puzzle, and got settled in for the long flight. Anderson was studying a map of the city, apparently attempting to familiarize himself with its layout. Paige was crunching peanuts and listening to loud music. The plane took off, and Malcolm started working on his puzzle. This particular one was relatively challenging, so he was kept occupied for a long time before he noticed Paige was staring at him. "Yes..?" he asked, unsure of what she wanted from him.

"Is that Sudoku?" she asked. Malcolm thought he could detect a note of cynicism in her voice. "Why, yes it is," he said blandly. "How about that."

"I have four words for you, Malcolm," she said. "You. Need. A. Life." Paige shifted around in her seat and crossed her legs. "Where's Troy? I thought that little twerp was coming with us."

"He is. He's in the cargo bay, actually. New vampires like him can't cross water without being inside a coffin filled with the soil of their birthplace."

"Oh, wow." Paige put a peanut between her front teeth and chopped it in half like a nutcracker. "Where'd you find dirt in London?"

"Oh," Malcolm said, and smiled. "We... improvised."

Down in the cargo bay, a black wooden box was strapped to the floor. If one were to get close enough, one might hear a muffled voice exclaim, "Why the heck am I lying in Mrs. McSweeney's potting soil?"

"Who was right? C'mon, Shawn; admit it. Who was right?"

"Okay, fine! You were right, Chaz; I screwed up. Now leave me alone, okay?"

It was a warm summer's afternoon in San Francisco, and business at the small Café Julia was good but slow. Two high-school boys sat in a booth next to the window, slurping soda and sharing cheese fries. Their names were Chaz Rouch and Shawn Maxwell, and they came here a lot during the summer. Shawn brushed his messy blond hair out of his eyes and sighed dejectedly. "I just thought she was the one, you know? I thought I'd finally gotten it right for once..."

"Spare me the sob story, Romeo. I told you that girl was trouble." Chaz took a long swig of Coke and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "She was only looking for some hot guy to wrap around her carefully manicured finger."

"That's not how it was!"

"Oh, really? Then explain to me why she suddenly ceased to love you when Mr. Tom Tall Dark and Handsome started writing her love notes? Face it, dude; you been played."

Shawn sighed and stuffed a bunch of fries in his mouth. "Mmf... okay... gnf... maybe you're... mmf... right." He swallowed and took a swig of Coke. "I guess I should look for somebody Christian, but none of the girls in our youth group will date me."

"Dude, just forget about girls for a while. What you need is some romance-free R&R."

Shawn stuffed more fries in his mouth. "Mmf... good idea," he said.

Chaz sighed. "Look, if you wanna get girls to like you, you gotta stop talking with your mouth full."

"Bud I awways tawk wid my mouf full!"

Suddenly, Shawn's phone went off in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that he had a text message from his mom. It read: UR L8. "Oh, crap!" he exclaimed. "It's already two? I was supposed to be home at one-thirty! Sorry, Chaz, I gotta go!"

Shawn ran out the door, and Chaz shouted, "See ya later!"

Once outside, he sprinted to the bike rack, hurriedly undid the lock on his bike, and pedaled away as fast as he could go. _Dang,_ he thought to himself. _I'm gonna have to take a shortcut_. He veered off to the right and took a side street in an effort to shorten his route. But as he rode, he realized he didn't know this part of town as well as he thought. Pretty soon, he was hopelessly lost, and he found himself at the dead-end of an alley. "Great," he said aloud. "Just great." He stopped his bike, put the kickstand down, and jumped off. _I just gotta call Dad and tell him I'm lost, _he thought, and dialed his dad's cell phone number. Unfortunately, it went straight to voice-mail, so he left a message and hung up.

As he leaned against the wall, Shawn noticed someone walking towards him. Pretty soon, a tall, hairy man was leaning on the alley wall next to him. "Nice day, huh?" the stranger said with a grin. "You look like you're lost."

Shawn lived in San Francisco, and he knew how dangerous these alleys could get if you weren't careful. "Who wants to know?" he asked suspiciously. "Be forewarned: I am an expert pepper-sprayer."

The strange man grinned again, and Shawn knew that something wasn't right about this guy. "Do you have silver bullets?" the man rasped, and his face started to change. Shawn stumbled back in terror as the stranger's face contorted into the shape of a snout, and fur covered all of his exposed skin. His fingernails became long and pointed until they'd become claws, and he cackled and let out a long howl.

"No way," Shawn whispered. "Werewolves don't exist!"

The wolf-man turned back to Shawn and panted. "Tell me, kid," he slavered. "How's about joining me for lunch?"

"Alright, where tae?"

"The Hilton, on the corner of 34th and Maple. Go as fast as you can, but try not to exceed the speed limit. We don't have a budget allotment for speeding tickets, although I did notice something labeled 'Bail Money' on this year's pie chart..."

They'd arrived at the airport and piled into a waiting mid-size Chevy SUV; Anderson was driving (obviously), Malcolm rode shotgun, and Troy and Paige sat in the back as far away from each other as they could manage. The car inched along at an alarmingly slow rate, and Anderson smacked the steering wheel and threw up his hands in resignation. "Ah'm afraid we could nae get caught speeding if we wanted tae. The traffic here is sae bad, we might nae make it tae the hotel 'afore sundown!"

"Well," Malcolm said, and turned in his seat to face Troy and Paige. "That means you two get to do some bonding before we unpack." He grinned mischievously, and Paige stuck her tongue out at him. Troy was silently fuming; Malcolm had been acting like this all day, and if Troy hadn't been raised in a family with relatively good morals, he might have flipped him the bird. Instead, he glowered at Malcolm the entire ride, even after all that could be seen of him was the back of his head. _That guy is such a jerk_, Troy thought to himself. _I should be on a show called 'Everybody Hates Troy'. Then I could live my life, but I'd get paid for it._

Finally, after nearly an hour of waiting at red lights behind miles of cars, the Chevy reached the Hilton. "Whoa," Troy mumbled. "This place is nice..."

"But of course," Malcolm said, opening the car door and stepping out onto the pavement. "The Hellsing Organization has always spared no expense in providing comfortable accommodations for its special agents."

"Comfortable?" Troy asked incredulously. "I think it's a bit more than 'comfortable'. This hotel is a friggin' PALACE!"

"Could you please refrain from using that sort of language?" Malcolm chided. "It's vulgar and uncivilized. Besides, I've been to several palaces, and this hotel doesn't really compare."

"Well, excuse me for not being raised by a millionaire," Troy grumbled.

Suddenly, Malcolm turned and glared straight at Troy, so furious and openly loathing that Troy couldn't help but take a step back. "You can blame your father for that," he spat, and whirled and stomped towards the hotel without saying another word. Troy stood watching him walk away, shocked and a little confused.

Paige raised an eyebrow. "That boy has issues," she said. "No wonder Integra wanted you to come along, Dad. I think I might have killed him by now."

Troy turned to face her. "I thought you wanted to kill me," he said, having recovered from his brief shock. "Because I'm an atheist vampire and whatever."

"I do want to kill you," she replied. "But you're heathen. He's just annoying."

"Yeah, he always acts like he's got a friggin' lamp-post up his anus."

Finally, Anderson spoke up. "Troy, quit swearin', an' Paige, dinnae kill yer teammates. Ah'll talk tae Malcolm, but we need tae check in first. And, dinnae be too quick tae judge. People can surprise ye."

They walked across the parking lot and nearly got run over by a pale blue Taurus. The driver laid on his horn, and Troy recognized him. It was the old American man from the Megaro Hotel. _That's weird_, he thought. _He must live near here or something_. As they drew nearer to the hotel doors, Troy thought he smelled something unusual. "Hey, Anderson," he said. "Do you smell that?"

Anderson sniffed the air, then said, "Ah dinnae smell anything."

"Maybe it's just your imagination," Paige added cynically.

Troy folded his arms. "It's not my imagination! It smells sickly sweet, like peaches or perfume, and it's really strong. It gets stronger the closer we get to the hotel. I can't believe you can't smell it..."

Suddenly, Malcolm hurtled out of the hotel, stretched out his arms, and leaned back against the double glass doors, holding them shut. He had long gashes across his left forearm and the right side of his chest, and his torso heaved with every breath. "They found us..." he gasped. "Our location... compromised..."

Something slammed into the doors and shattered the glass, sending Malcolm, blood, and shards of glass flying across the parking lot. Troy held back the temptation to scream, and Anderson rushed to Malcolm's aid while Paige unsheathed her katanas and stood facing what remained of the hotel doors. "C'mere, doggie," she muttered. "I might give ye a treat..."

As if on cue, a werewolf armed with a machine gun barreled out of the hotel, slavering and spattered with blood. He pulled up in front of Paige and started shooting, cackling maniacally.

Anderson scooped up Malcolm, now unconscious, and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Start runnin'!" he yelled to Troy. "Paige can handle this!"

Troy stood transfixed, watching Paige become riddled with bullets. "Does that look like handling it to you?" he yelled back. "She's being decimated!" He pulled out Jackal and jogged over to Paige, who was lying, unmoving, on the pavement. "Paige!" he yelled, but he got no answer. Turning to face the werewolf, he pointed Jackal at its heart and squeezed the trigger. The werewolf, however, was too fast. The next thing he knew, Troy was pinned to the pavement and staring up the snout of the rabid creature.

"You're too slow," the thing slavered. "What a pity; I expected more from you, Midian." It started cackling, and Troy knew he was a goner.

Suddenly, a flash of blue light flew across his vision, and the werewolf's head landed on the pavement with a soft thud. Troy stood up and dusted himself off. Paige stood next to the decapitated werewolf, totally untouched and cleaning her katana blade with a white rag. "Machine guns are overrated," she said, and sheathed her swords. "Still, we should probably get out of here before more of them show up." She looked over at Troy, who was staring at her open-mouthed. "What?" she asked. "Did you think I was dead?"

Troy nodded, still open-mouthed.

Paige sighed. "Just get your rear in gear before I have to save it again." She ran to regroup with her father, who was eyeing Troy peculiarly from across the parking lot. As soon as everyone was caught up and running down Maple, Anderson looked over at Troy like he wanted to say something. Troy beat him to it. "Don't say it," he said. "Don't say, 'I told you so'. I know, I should have listened to you. I'm sorry."

"Oh, that's alright, lad," Anderson said. "Ah just didn't know ye brought the Jackal with ye. Yer dad teach ye tae fire that thing?"

"Of course! I've known how to use this since I was, like, five. And it's not just a 'thing', you know."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's not!" Troy knew that getting into an argument while running from killer werewolves was probably not a good idea, but he couldn't help it. "The Jackal is a thirteen-millimeter marvel of modern machinery firing mercury-tipped explosive shells in pure silver casings! It's the ultimate pistol, and I can guarantee you won't find anything else like it on the market! Anyone with any sense would respect that," he blurted, then realized his mistake and shut his trap before he could do further damage.

Paige was staring daggers at him and reaching menacingly for her katanas. "Stand an' fight me, ye blitherin' buffoon, an' we'll see just how 'ultimate' that pistol is," she said, obviously close to her boiling point.

Anderson, however, only laughed. "Alucard, ye dog," he said to the air. "We seem tae have gotten ourselves a rivalry that'll last 'til the end of time. Even when we're dead, we will nae stop fightin'. What ae world..."

Molcolm tried (and failed) to lift his head, and moaned. The gashes were bad, and his blood covered almost the entire right side of Anderson's coat.

"Doesn't he need to go to a hospital?" Troy asked, more than a little worried about his nemesis.

"You're absolutely right, lad, but Ah dinnae know where any hospitals are around here. For now, let's just get him somewhere quiet, like an alley. We can take better care of him there."

"Sounds like a plan."

Seras had arrived at the crime scene about two days after the incident had transpired, but by that time Troy and John were long gone. Mrs. Myers was the primary and only witness, but she got into a bad car accident on the way back to her house, and was out for nearly two days. Thus, police had no idea anything had even happened until she woke. Seras stood in the school parking lot, watching her squad secure the building against a night sky lit by flashing red and blue lights. On the outside she was cool and collected; on the inside she was so worried she was about to faint. _I hope they're alright_, she thought frantically. _They could've at least left a note or something..._

"Captain!"

She turned to find a man jogging towards her, holding a single sheet of loose-leaf paper. "Yes, Officer Graham?" she asked. "You have something to report?"

"I found this note in Room 206. It's addressed to someone called 'Police Girl'. Do you think it could be evidence, sir?"

Seras gasped. She hadn't been called 'Police Girl' since... "Give me the note, Officer," she snapped. Graham handed her the sheet of paper, and she held it with a trembling hand. It read:

Police Girl. Gone to Hellsing HQ. Meet me there. Bring the Harkonen. P.S. Expect a change. Alucard.

"Good Lord," she breathed. "It can't be..."

"Should I bag it, Captain?" Graham asked tentatively.

Seras handed him the note. "Do whatever you want, Officer. I'm handing this operation over to you." She turned around and ran to her cruiser.

"You can't do that, sir!" Graham yelled. "You'll be discharged!"

"I know that already, Officer!" she yelled back, slid behind the wheel, and roared out of the parking lot. _I hope I'm not too late_, she thought, and sped back to the house with total disregard to the speed limit. Once home, she parked her cruiser in the driveway, and ran inside and up the stairs until she reached her bedroom. She rushed to her closet, threw open the doors, and dug through her clothes until her hand grasped something metal. She pulled out a thirty-millimeter cannon that was taller than she was, and carried it out to her cruiser. _Sheesh, Harkonen, you're an awful lot heavier than I remembered, _she thought as she struggled to stuff the gun into the back of her cruiser.

That accomplished, Seras drove as fast as she could to the outskirts of the city, until she reached the gates of a large mansion. As one of the guard approached her, she rolled down her window to talk to him. "Seras Hiller to see Sir Integra, please," she said before the guard had time to say anything. "Tell her Alucard sent me. It's extremely urgent!"

Seras could tell this was a new guard, because the name 'Alucard' caused no reaction. Of course, it had been twenty years. The guard talked on his radio for a minute or two, then conferred with his companion before opening the gate and motioning Seras inside. She pulled up in front of the building and stepped out of the car. She decided to leave Harkonen in her cruiser, and knocked on the door. The double doors swung open, and Seras was greeted by a young woman with blond hair wearing a maid's uniform. "Hello, Mrs. Hiller," she said politely. "My name is Vivian. I will take you to see Sir Integra. Please, right this way."

As she was led through Hellsing Manor, Seras found herself reminiscing, for every piece of furniture held some sort of memory for her. This place had been more of a home for her than anywhere else, and she already felt comfortable walking through the halls that led to Integra's study.

"Have you been here before, Mrs. Hiller?" Vivian asked, and Seras realized that she had been walking in front of the other woman without thinking about it. "Sorry," she said sheepishly, and took a step back. "I used to live here, actually."

"Oh, that's right," Vivian said, equally sheepish. "My apologies; Sir Integra had informed me, but it slipped my mind. I do hope you'll forgive me."

"No, no, it's fine, really. After all, you weren't here when I was." Seras found herself wishing Walter was still here, but he'd passed away a couple of years ago. Even in death, he'd been a true gentleman, and Seras still missed him.

Presently, they reached the door to Integra's study, and Vivian knocked twice. Seras could hear papers shuffling, then Integra's voice. "Come in," she said, and Vivian opened the door and motioned Seras inside. _I hope she's not still mad about the divorce,_ she thought, then stepped into the study.

Integra sat at her desk, glowering over a pair of folded hands.

_I guess she's still mad_, Seras thought. She closed the door and stood timidly before the desk. "Hello, Sir Integra," she said nervously. "It's been a long time, hasn't-"

"What do you want, Seras?" Integra snapped.

"Urm, well, I was hoping that..."

"If you're looking for your son, he's already gone. I sent him to San Francisco this morning."

"WHAT?" Seras was infuriated. "If you sent him on some freak-hunting crusade I'm going to-"

"He's not freak-hunting, he's looking for his father. Don't worry, Anderson and Malcolm are with him."

"Anderson is with-"

"Yes, Anderson. He's for us not against us. For the time being, anyway."

"And John-"

"...was captured by werewolves. Fear not, we have the situation well in hand."

"But, Sir Integra, I-"

"Yes?"

Seras took a deep breath. "YOU HAVE NOT LET ME FINISH A SINGLE SENTENCE THIS ENTIRE CONVERSATION!"

For once, Integra seemed at a complete loss for words. Seras, on the other hand, was absolutely seething and had a lot to say. "I know you're angry with me for 'stealing your husband'," she said, "but isn't this a little ridiculous? I mean, it's been twenty years! Besides, he told me the divorce had already been finalized when we started dating."

"There was no divorce when you started dating!" Integra snapped. "If it hadn't been for you, there wouldn't have been a divorce!"

"It's not my fault your marriage fell apart!" Seras shouted back. "I know how you are: you always have to control everything! Maybe if you would have given him some leash instead of treating him like a slave, he wouldn't have left you! Besides, it's not like I asked him out!" Seras was preparing to deal the death blow, and Integra knew it. Seras saw the slightest bit of fear in her eyes, and for a moment, she hesitated. But then her fury returned, and she continued her assault. "Do you know why he asked me out?" she said, her confidence building with every syllable. "At first, he didn't want me at all. He told me that he only started having an affair with me so that you would get a divorce. He would have done anything to get away from you. He never loved you!" She was screaming now, and tears were welling in her eyes. "So don't blame me, because it's all your fault! It is ALL YOUR FAULT!"

Finally, Seras broke down and flopped into a chair, sniffling and whimpering. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, I just... I'm so worried..." She sniffed, then looked up at Integra. "I – it's not true, I – I just... He did love you."

"No," Integra said quietly. "You're right. It was my fault. I just want to ask one favor of you..."

"Sure," Seras said.

Integra stood up, walked around her desk, and helped Seras to her feet. Then she slapped her across the cheek, as hard as she possibly could. "Now go find him," she said. "For both of us."

"What. The. Crap. We can't win, can we?" Troy said, staring at the body of the werewolf. "These things are everywhere!"

The group had travelled the side streets for a while, looking for a suitable alley to let Malcolm rest for a bit. In their searching, they entered an alley only to find a teenager about to be eaten by a werewolf. Anderson dispatched it with his left hand, somehow managing to send a bayonet straight through its heart without injuring the innocent citizen or letting go of Malcolm. It made Troy wonder what would happen if that man actually exerted himself in a fight.

"Yer right, we cannae seem to get a break," Anderson said, pulling his bayonet out of the corpse and wiping it with a rag. "Ah'm just worried we will nae be able tae get Malcolm to a hospital in time. Ah dinnae know much about medical stuff, but it looks pretty bad."

"Dude, that's the understatement of the century! Can't you guys, like, call a cab or something?" It was the teenager they'd rescued. He had blond hair, violet eyes, and wore ripped jeans and a beat-up pair of black Converses.

Troy laughed. "In this part of town? Fat chance. I don't know if you've noticed, but this is a dead-end. Besides, I don't know about the rest of my posse, but I definitely don't have enough U.S. dollars for the taxi fare."

"Well, if you can get me to South Queen Street, I can get my dad to take ya." He held out his hand. "I'm Shawn, by the way."

Paige glowered at him with her arms folded. "Thanks, but we can handle this ourselves," she said.

"Uh, no we can't," Troy said. "I don't care if Malcolm is the biggest jerk in the history of the universe. I'm not going to let him die because of a little pride!"

Anderson nodded. "Aye, we'd better take this Shawn up on his offer. Ah think we passed South Queen Street on the way here..."

Shawn beamed. "Great! 'Cuz I'm lost. So, who are you guys, and how'd you kill that thing so fast?"

"Who wants to know?" Paige snapped. Anderson dealt her a swift elbow to the ribs, and she unfolded her arms. "Ah'm Alexander Anderson," he said. "An' this is mah daughter, Paige. That's Troy, an' this..." he hefted the unconscious dead-weight on his shoulder. "... is Malcolm. Our business here is classified, but Ah can tell ye that ye've no need tae fear any freaks while we're around. Now, we'd best hurry, 'afore our five-some is down tae four."

They left the alley and headed back the way they came, until they reached South Queen Street. "Alright, I know where to go from here," Shawn said. He led them about four blocks, jay-walking and blatantly ignoring all the rules of pedestrian-ism. Finally, he stopped in front of a huge, lavishly decorated house. "This," he said, "is... not my house."

Troy stared at him. "Then why are we here?"

"I just like to look at it," Shawn replied dreamily. They walked two houses down, and stopped at a nice, medium-sized house. "I don't know why we don't have a bigger house," Shawn whined. "I mean, my dad is a DA, so he could definitely afford it. I just have cheapo parents, I guess."

Troy walked along the sidewalk, and saw a shiny, sleek, extremely expensive red Lamborghini parked along the curb. _Yeah, cheap_, he thought sarcastically, but he didn't say anything. Shawn noticed his gaze, though. "Oh, we got that for free," he said, motioning to the sports car. "My dad nabbed some guy for Grand Theft Auto, and the owner didn't want it anymore, so we took it. The thief messed with some of the wiring, though, so some of the buttons on the dash don't do what they're supposed to. Like, don't press the windshield wiper button. That's the emergency brake."

Paige sighed. "Boys and their cars. Are we going to go inside sometime this century?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, keep your pants on," Shawn said, took out a ring of keys, and unlocked the door. He opened it and motioned inside. "Ladies first," he said.

Paige stomped through the door and glared at him. Apparently, she didn't take well to chivalry. Troy and Anderson followed her, and Shawn closed the door behind them. There was a woman with short, mouse-brown hair holding a frying pan and staring at them apprehensively. "Shawn," she said, slightly suspicious. "Who are these people?"

"Oh, hah-hah, hi, Mom," Shawn said, a little nervously. "Urm, these people need to get to a hospital. They saved my life you know, and man, you would not believe what happened to me today... oh, hey, Lucy!"

A little girl with curly red hair ran into the room and hugged Shawn's legs, squealing happily. Shawn looked at Troy apologetically. "She's my sister. She's three, and she won't leave me alone."

"Piggyback!" the little girl cried. "Piggyback!"

"Not now, Lu," Shawn said, and peeled her off his legs. "Hey, Mom, do you know where Dad is?" he asked.

"He's out back, attempting to grill something," she said, still a little wary and holding the frying pan like she knew how to use it.

"Thanks! I'll be right back," Shawn said, and bolted through the house.

Anderson cleared his throat. "Ah'm sorry if we cause ye any trouble. We dinnae mean ye any harm." He put out his hand. "Ah'm Alexander Anderson."

Shawn's mother sat the frying pan on a side table and shook his hand. "I'm Sue," she said. "It's no trouble, really. You can set that poor kid down on the couch while we're waiting, and I'll change the dressing on his wounds for you." She opened a closet and produced some heavy-duty bandages and gauze. Anderson lifted Malcolm gently off his shoulder and laid him on the couch. Malcolm was conscious now, but barely, and he looked like he was in excruciating pain. Sue worked quickly, ripping off the pieces of Malcolm's jacket that Anderson had hastily thrown together to quell the blood flow and replacing them with fresh, clean bandages. "I used to be a nurse for the Army," she said. "I'm pretty sure if we get him to a hospital he'll be just fine."

"Thank ye sae much," Anderson said. "Ah dinnae know what we would have done if Shawn hadn't shown up." He was standing noticeably straighter now, and Troy whispered to Paige, "I think your dad feels as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders."

She didn't think it was funny, and truthfully, it wasn't, so he said so. "I know, that wasn't funny... it was really kind of dumb..."

Paige glared at him.

"...so I should probably shut up now," he said, and trailed off into awkward silence.

Shawn sprinted back into the room "Okay, Houston, we are go for launch!" he said. "Let's get outta here before Malcolm dies and/or we have to eat one of my dad's 'burgers'. I swear, those things are NHL approved for tournament use!"

"Don't criticize my cooking," a faint voice with a strong Italian accent replied from some other part of the house. "I buy your food, ungrateful child."

"Dear Lord," Anderson mumbled. "Ah know that voice... but it cannae be..."

"What?" Troy asked. "What's going on?" He looked at Paige for support, but all he got was a shrug.

A man entered the room, and Shawn said, "This is my dad."

Anderson looked like he was seeing a ghost. His eyes were wide, wider than Troy had ever seen them before. His hand was shaking a little, and he seemed a shade paler than normal. "Merciful Heavens," he whispered. "Enrico Maxwell."


	5. Chapter 5

Anderson could barely believe what he was seeing. He'd cut his hair, acquired a (slight) tan, wore a T-shirt and jeans, and smelled like charcoal, but there could be no doubt that the man standing before him was Enrico Maxwell. "Ah cannae believe it," he mumbled. "You're alive?"

Maxwell blinked. He looked really confused, and a little startled. "Who are you? How did you know my name?"

Now it was Anderson's turn to be confused. "It's me, Father Anderson," he said. "Dae ye nae remember? Ah mean, twenty years is ae long time, but Ah thought ye'd at least remember me..."

"Wait." Maxwell looked like he was trying to figure something out. "You say you knew me twenty years ago..?"

"Aye," Anderson said, not quite sure where this was heading.

"Hey, I know y'all are probably gonna have some life-changing revelation or somethin', but wouldn't it seem prudent to get in the car?" Shawn interrupted. "What's-his-face, uh, Malcolm, is kinda sorta, oh, I don't know, BLEEDING TO DEATH over here!"

"Of course," Maxwell said, unfazed by his son's outburst, and opened the door. "I'll explain on the way to the hospital. I don't know exactly what's going on, but I think I'm beginning to get an idea, of sorts."

Anderson picked up Malcolm and carried him out to the waiting sports car. Somehow, after a couple of minutes of struggling, they managed to fit Maxwell, Anderson, Malcolm, Troy, Paige, and Shawn in the car, which was quite a task for something that should really only be carrying four people. They ended up having Malcolm lie on the laps of Troy, Shawn, and Paige in the backseat. It was either that, or the floor.

Troy suddenly held his head in his hands and moaned. Anderson turned around in his seat. "Are ye alright, lad?" he asked.

Troy looked up and smiled with gritted teeth. "I'm fine," he said. "I just... have a really bad headache, that's all."

Maxwell looked concerned. "Do you need an Ibuprofen? I have some in the glove compartment..."

No, it's fine. Really." Troy grimaced at a sudden flash of pain, but he noticed Paige eyeing him and realized he couldn't let her see his weakness. He shrugged it off and smiled again. "I'm sure it'll go away in a couple of hours."

Paige folded her arms. This seemed to be a favorite posture for her. "Well, if it's really that bad, then not accepting medication would be..." She turned and looked him square in the eye. "Fool stupid."

Troy knew she was just doing this to annoy/embarrass him, and he couldn't help it; his upper lip curled, exposing his fangs, and he growled. It was a low, feral, and totally unannounced, and Troy reeled in shock. _What in the world- ?_ he thought. _Where did that come from? What- what am I turning into?_

Everyone in the car was staring at him in total silence. Troy started to sweat.

Finally, Shawn spoke up. "You know, for every second of awkward silence, a gay baby is born."

Now everyone in the car was staring at Shawn.

"Dude," Troy said. "What the heck is going through your mind when you say these things?"

Anderson looked over at Maxwell. "That's yer child?" he asked incredulously.

Maxwell only sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned the key in the ignition. The car roared to life, and Maxwell carefully guided it away from the curb and into the street. When they reached the end of the street, they were immediately stuck in traffic. Maxwell relaxed and turned to face Anderson. "I have a feeling that we both have some major explaining to do," he said. "Now seems as good a time as any."

Anderson nodded. "Aye, ye're right. Would ye nae mind goin' first? It seems like ye're a wee bit less confused than Ah am..."

"Of course. That won't be a problem." Maxwell cleared his throat and started subconsciously tapping the steering wheel with his index finger. They were stuck at a red light, and the total silence emanating from the back of the car told him he now had the undivided attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity. _Just like a court room,_ he thought. _I hereby solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth... _"Well," he said. "You say you knew me twenty years ago, but you're confused because I don't seem to remember you. You see, the reason I can't remember you is that twenty years ago, I suffered a case of extremely severe amnesia."

To say Anderson looked surprised would be an understatement. "What?" he asked. "Ye're nae serious- ?"

Maxwell nodded. "Unfortunately, I am quite serious. It was a complete and total memory wipe. I woke up on the bank of the Thames with my nose in the sand, and all I could remember was my name. So, whatever had happened to me in my life before that point, who I was, what I did, who my parents were... it was all gone. Erased forever, without leaving even the possibility of recollection."

Maxwell stopped and looked over at Anderson, who had the facial expression of a person experiencing post-traumatic shock. "Um, are you going to be okay..?" Maxwell asked timidly.

Anderson blinked a couple of times and took a deep breath. "Yeah, Ah'm fine."

"Okay." Maxwell continued his narrative. "I was found by an American military unit, who treated my wounds (which I couldn't remember getting). They saw that I had nowhere to go, so they brought me back to the States with them and allowed me to stay at an Army base in California until I could earn enough money to get back on my feet. It was there that I met Sue, and after a couple of years, we got married and moved here, to San Francisco. She worked as a nurse while I went to college for my law degree, and in a few years we had Shawn. Lucy was born three years ago. Since then, I've been working as a District Attorney for the State of California, but I was never really content. It was like I was always waiting for something; I can't explain it. So when you showed up and said you knew me, it was, well, and answer to my prayers. I'd given up hope of ever getting any answers..." Maxwell trailed off and looked over at Anderson. "Now I believe it is your turn," he said.

Anderson ran his hands through his short, blond hair and sighed. "Where tae begin... Wait. Are ye still Catholic?"

"Um, no," Maxwell said. "Nondenominational."

"Ah." Anderson thought for a second or two, then he spoke up again. "Enrico Maxwell, Ah've known ye since ye were... oh, what was it? Ten or eleven, it musta been. Lord, it's been ages... Anyway, Ah used tae work at an orphanage jist outside 'o' Rome. One day, a car pulled up in front of the gate, an' ye got out with nothin' but ae brown suitcase. We all assumed it was yer parents in the car, but ye never talked about it. They drove off an' left ye standin' there, all alone. But ye did nae cry, not ae single tear. Ye just told me that ye did nae need anyone anymore, an' that one day ye'd become great sae ye could look down on all of 'em. That broke mah heart, sae Ah took ye under mah wing. Ah watched ye grow up tae become ae priest, an' eventually the head of the Iscariot Organization. Everyone had it out for ye, but ye bit an' clawed yer way tae the top, even through all the hatred an' ridicule they piled on top of ye. Ah think that's why ye hated Integra Hellsing sae much: she was born intae her position while ye had tae work yer hide off for it, but she somehow thought she was better than you. Sae she became the target for all yer pent-up righteous anger, an' ye decided tae go tae London an' watch her fight off Incognito sae ye'd be there tae have me decimate whatever might have been left. But somethin' went wrong. Ah was in the city waitin' on yer order, but all Ah got on mah communications was static. Ah sprinted down tae the bank of the Thames, but ye were nae where Ah'd left ye. Then Ah looked down at the river an' Ah... Ah saw yer limp body floatin' downstream."

Anderson went silent and turned his face away from Maxwell. "Ah truly thought Ah'd lost ye," he said softly. "Ah should've never left ye alone..."

Maxwell still looked confused. "I'm sorry, but there's still a lot I don't understand. You say I was the head of the... Iscariot Organization?"

"Yeah," Shawn interrupted. "I'm confuzzled. Who's Integra Hellsing, and what's an Incognito?"

"Easy there, lad, one at ae time! Ah'm not ae search engine." Anderson seemed to have recovered quickly from whatever emotion had found its way into his narrative, and Troy was glad for that. Seeing Anderson in that state made him feel awkward, and his headache was only getting worse. Troy felt worse than he ever had in his life, and he really hoped they'd get to the hospital soon. He could faintly hear Anderson explaining, but the words held no meaning for his aching head. Now he really wished he'd accepted that Ibuprofen. The sounds of the city around him melded into a thrumming, dull roar, he put his head in his hands, and the noise lulled him into the release of sleep.

-XXXXX-

Paige saw Troy slump over, and immediately knew something was wrong. People don't just get headaches bad enough to make them black out for no reason. "Dad," she said. "How close are we to the hospital? Troy's just gone unconscious."

Malcolm stirred, and opened his eyes. "Was that... a hint of concern, Miss Anderson?" he asked with a weak grin. "Is it actually possible that you... do possess a sense of compassion?"

Paige glared at him. "I liked you better when you were unconscious. Shut up, Protestant, or I'll knock you back out, and trust me, you won't wake up."

Malcolm closed his eyes and chuckled. "Good. If you actually said something nice to me, nothing would be certain in this world anymore."

"We're pullin' intae the parking lot now," Anderson announced. "Ye think ye can make it Malcolm?"

"You mean, can I stay alive until we get there?" Malcolm quipped. "Yes, I think I can manage."

Maxwell found a spot in the second row and carefully guided the Lamborghini into the empty space. Anderson stepped out of the car, reached in, and picked up Malcolm. "Maybe ye three should stay outside an' make sure Troy's okay," he said. "Ah'll take Malcolm inside."

"That's awfully kind of you," Malcolm grunted, not comfortable with being carried. "But I don't need to go to a hospital. I'll be perfectly fine in about twenty minutes or so."

"Look, young Hellsing, ye bled all over mah coat," Anderson responded. "Ye need ae hospital."

"Does he?"

Everyone gave a start; the voice had come from the slumped-over Troy, but it was not Troy who had spoken. The voice was deep and smooth as satin, but oddly chilling.

Paige felt an uncustomary shiver run down her spine. "Something evil is here," she whispered, fingering the silver cross around her neck. "Darker than anything Ah've ever experienced."

Troy raised his head and grinned, red eyes redder than usual and glowing with a piercing light. "Well, I'm honored," said the voice that was not Troy's. The space above and between his eyes contorted, and a third eye opened up in the center of his forehead. "I'm not really in the mood to fight you, but if I wanted to that cross wouldn't do you any good. In the local vernacular, FYI, little Judas Priestess."

Paige clenched her fists around her katana hilts to keep them from shaking. "Who are you?" she growled through gritted teeth.

The three-eyed Troy only laughed. "Who am I? What a question. Didn't your father ever tell you? Hmm, Anne-Marie Anderson?"

"Alucard." The statement came from Anderson Sr., who'd put Malcolm down in the grass and now stood with bayonets drawn and at his sides.

'Troy' grinned. "Still tactless as ever, oh Judas Priest. I'd love to fight you again, just like twenty years ago, but I have little time. Remote possession requires a large expenditure of energy, so I must be brief."

"What... what is going on here?" Maxwell interrupted, for once not as confused as he was afraid. "Who is this?"

Troy/Alucard turned his crimson gaze on Maxwell. "Well, if it isn't the archbishop. I thought you'd died. Well, I suppose it is good to have the old gang back together for one last hurrah."

"What's yer business here, demon?" Anderson snarled. "Why are ye doin' this?"

"Only to inform you that you're looking in the wrong places, Paladin," Alucard answered curtly. "They did manage to catch me in a weakened state, but that doesn't mean I'm incompetent. I know where I am, and if you find me, you find them."

"Them?" Shawn asked. "Who's 'them'? Are 'they' the same 'them' that killed Kenny?"

Troy/Alucard looked confused. "Who?"

"Never mind," Shawn sighed. "It's just a TV show, ya know?"

Troy/Alucard cast Shawn an unpleasant, unamused look. "Right. Well, I don't know a whole lot, but I can tell you that I am currently being held somewhere in Germany, probably Bavaria. I also know that ROM-DEX is only a front, but for what, I'm not sure." He lowered his voice. "There's something more going on here. Something far more dangerous than satellite sabotage."

"What do you mean?" Paige growled, fists still clenched around her undrawn katana hilts.

Troy/Alucard grinned. "We'll see soon enough, I'm sure. Someone will be around shortly to make sure I'm not doing exactly this, so Auf Wiedersehen..."

"Alucard, wait!" It was Malcolm who had spoken. It was obvious he was still in pain, but he'd managed to drag himself up to a standing position, and he stood clutching his side. "Wait... I have to talk to you."

Troy/Alucard looked over at Malcolm, and a strange expression came over his face. It seemed like he wanted to say something, yet could only remain speechless.

"I don't know if you remember me," Malcolm spat with undisguised bitterness. "I'm Malcolm Winston Gregory Hellsing. I'm your son, Alucard. Do you remember?"

"Of course I remember," Alucard said quietly. For once, he seemed subdued. "Come here, let me look at you."

Malcolm stayed exactly where he was. "Why did you marry my mother if you were only going to leave?" he asked. "Was it out of desire? Obligation? Sport, even? Tell me, No-Life King. What was it that caused you to think that something else was more important than your own flesh and blood?"

Everyone was silent, including Alucard. It stayed that way for what seemed like an eternity, even though it probably wasn't that long.

Finally, Alucard spoke. "I'm leaving."

"Answer the question, darn it!" Malcolm shouted, but it was too late. The third eye on Troy's forehead closed, and he slumped into a pile on the pavement. Malcolm stood over the now-unconscious Troy, as if silently wishing him to get back up.

Everyone else was in a various state of silent pity or awkward fidgeting, and no one wanted to look Malcolm in the eye when he turned to face them.

"Well?" he asked, completely devoid of emotion. "Do you think I need a hospital now, or don't you?"

Anderson cleared his throat. "Sae ye're..." he started to say, but trailed off.

Malcolm looked him square in the eye. "Yes," he said. "I'm half vampire."

"That sucks," Shawn blurted, but he shrank back when his father shot him a withering glare. "Sorry," he squeaked. "I know, bad pun, but I didn't try it, ya know...?"

Malcolm turned and looked at him, gratitude and understanding in his eyes. "It does suck," he said quietly. "It really, really sucks."

-XXXXX-

The tiny, square, white cell with no doors or windows was completely silent. The room had no furniture whatsoever, and was barely high enough for a short man to stand up in. Its single occupant sat slumped in a corner with his head between his knees, long black hair cascading over bloodied suit trousers. The blood on his clothes had long since dried, and the wounds underneath had healed themselves a matter of hours after their infliction.

The man himself appeared to be either brain-dead or unconscious, but after a couple of minutes his red eyes snapped open and he straightened up with a sudden jerk. Once he was awake, Alucard rested his head back against the wall. This cube, as he'd taken to calling it, had been his prison for the past few days; at least, he was pretty sure it had been days. The passage of time was becoming harder and harder to keep track of within these uncompromising white-washed walls.

The only access he had to the outside world was through reading the minds of the soldiers who guarded his cell. However, whoever was keeping him here obviously knew a lot about Nosferatu; the guards knew absolutely nothing about who was really employing them, or even what they were guarding, for that matter. He could get virtually nothing from them, except a general guess at location derived from their language and dialect thereof.

Not to mention the fact that their names were Wolfgang and Falko.

Alucard punched the solid concrete wall, but there was no real power in it. He'd learned soon after he got here that something in the walls prevented him from phasing through them, but every once in a while he'd give them a little love tap to freak out the guards.

Sure enough, Lenny and Squiggy jumped a little, but it seemed even they were becoming used to the horrible monotony of the cube.

Alucard leaned back and closed his eyes. He had not expected to see Malcolm when he'd made his brief escape to the outside world. He hadn't seen him since... well, he'd never seen him, actually. _He looks so much like Integra_, Alucard thought, and memories from sixteen years ago surfaced from the back of his mind. Having nothing to do, he decided not to push them aside; he had no desire to run from the past, anyway.

He and Integra had been sitting on a bench outside a courtroom, waiting for their divorce to go before the judge. Alucard remembered being struck by the ridiculousness of the whole system: the paper, the formalities, it was all one big joke. He'd been human then, but he was sure Integra felt the same way.

They'd sat on that bench in total silence, and Integra pulled something out of her pocket. She'd wordlessly showed it to him; it was a pregnancy test, and it was positive. For some reason, Alucard couldn't remember what he'd felt at that moment. Perhaps he hadn't felt anything.

After a moment of silence, he'd numbly asked, "Is it mine?"

"No," Integra had answered curtly. "This child no longer has a father. It is mine, and mine alone."

"You do realize that's physically impossible," he'd said, not quite sure if he was trying to avoid the inevitable or simply state a fact.

Integra had simply put the pregnancy test back in her pocket and glared at the wall across from her with arms folded. "Don't you think you've done enough damage, Alucard?" she'd snapped.

Back then, the remark had stung. She'd only called him "Alucard" when she was referring to him as a vampire. A vile, heartless killing machine. A monster. But it no longer mattered to him as it had before. In fact, now he felt utterly foolish for the revulsion he'd felt towards his own nature. The recent events had dragged him back to reality, and he went willingly. He'd finally realized that if you give up your humanity once, you are never, ever going to get it back.

-XXXXX-

Troy opened his eyes slowly. The headache was gone, but he still felt a little groggy from passing out (yet again). Looking around, he noticed he was lying under a tree, planted in the grass of a divider in the hospital parking lot. So he hadn't been out TOO long.

He sat up and stretched, trying to shake the sleep out of his limbs. He felt like something had happened while he was out, something he should be aware of, but he couldn't remember anything for the unlife of him. The rest of his compadres were gathered around the Lamborghini, conversing in hushed tones and occasionally glancing at him with various odd looks on their faces. Malcolm sat on the hood of the car, arms folded and staring daggers at Troy.

_What is that guy's problem?_ Troy thought. _And why isn't he in the hospital yet?_

Troy got up and walked over to the sports car. Immediately, everyone fell silent and stared at him. _What the heck?_ Troy thought. "Is something wrong? I mean, all of you are staring at me like I've got three eyes or something."

Shawn immediately started cracking up laughing. "That was classic, man!" he howled. "Classic! Dude, did you try that, or what? Perfect timing, bro! Ha ha ha!"

"Shut up!" Paige growled, and shut up Shawn did, although he still looked like he was having a hard time suppressing his laughter.

Troy was suddenly furious. "What the heck is going on here?" he yelled. "Every single one of you is staring at me like I'm some kind of ghost, and no one will tell me anything about what the frig is going on! I'm sick and tired of being treated like an imbecile by you people, so I want an explanation and I want it friggin' NOW!"

"Chill out, man," Shawn chuckled, totally unfazed. "Sheesh, who crapped in your cornflakes?"

Troy calmed down a little. "Shawn, you are way too happy. Get depressed or something."

Shawn smiled. "Thanks, bro. I'll be sure to keep that in mind." He took on a melodramatic philosophical pose. "Let's see, how to put this delicately..."

Paige snorted. "There's no 'delicate' way to tell someone they've just been possessed by their own father, you bonehead."

"What the fu- " Troy blurted, but stopped himself when he noticed Paige's icy glare. "Fudge-monkeys," he mumbled. "I was gonna say fudge-monkeys."

Paige growled. "Of course you were."

"Seriously, though, what the heck?" Troy continued. "I mean... it's just... what the fu- FUDGE-MONKEYS!"

"Dude, you need a better word than fudge-monkeys," Shawn chuckled. "Don't worry about it too much; he just came to tell us he's somewhere in Germany and that ROM-DEX is a front. Man, your half-brother has major daddy issues..."

"Woah." Troy stared at Shawn with an intense gaze that made the other teen flinch. "My half-brother? I have a half-brother? Who is he, and why didn't anybody tell me? Doesn't this strike anyone as important enough for at least a brief mention?"

"We did nae know until jist now," Anderson said, trying to calm Troy done. "Ye see, it's jist that-"

"Well, really, I'm surprised he didn't notice before," Malcolm interjected with false civility. "Of course, it IS Troy we're talking about..."

"Well, sorry, Watson, but I'm not exactly Sherlock Holmes," Troy muttered. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he lifted his head with a jerk and stared at Malcolm with wide, saucer-like eyes. "Oh my God. You – are you..? Really..? My – my..."

"Yes, Porky Pig," Malcolm spat. "Alucard is my father. Now kindly quit stammering, we have some werewolves to slay."

Troy, however, simply stared into space, lost in his own little world and mumbling to himself. Paige and Malcolm exchanged sarcastic glances, and Paige turned away with her arms folded, deeply shocked by the brief moment of comradery.

Maxwell, who hadn't spoken a word since Alucard had come and gone, found himself in yet another awkward, silent situation. Desperate for a moment of sanity, he cleared his throat. "It would seem I'm no longer needed here," he said hesitantly. "I'd be no use 'slaying werewolves', and neither would Shawn, so I should probably leave you to your..." He struggled to find a word. "...work. Unless you still need the car..?"

"Well..." Anderson fidgeted. He hadn't been counting on this reaction from his former chief. "Ah was kinda hopin' ye'd come along... but if ye dinnae want tae, Ah understand," he added hastily. "It's jist, Ah have nae seen ye in such ae long time..."

"Oh, well, I'd be more than happy to keep in touch," Maxwell sputtered, thrown off by this development and not sure what to say to the bear-like vampire hunter. "I just don't want to be a liability... I don't mean to be rude, but..." He trailed off, but picked up his line of thought again in a more serious tone. "I have a family," he said quietly. "I won't do anything that could even present the possibility of putting them in harm's way. I'm sorry, but until this situation is over, I can't go with you."

Malcolm smiled wryly to himself. "And I bet the firm won't give you vacation days to go off killing things."

Troy suddenly snapped out of his reverie and turned to face the group. "What firm? The Firm? Wasn't that a movie?"

Paige sighed. "Just shut up, Troy. Nobody cares about you."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "It's a lawyer thing, bonehead." He drew back in mock horror. "Oh no, I'm starting to sound like Paige! Troy, what have you done?"

"C'mon, leave the poor guy alone," Shawn said. "He's had a rough day, for sure. You could at least cut him some slack."

Troy lifted his hands and turned his face to the heavens. "THANK YOU!" he screamed joyously. "Finally, someone who doesn't hate my guts!"

Shawn laughed. "Hey, us awesome underdogs gotta stick together!"

While all this was going on, Anderson had quietly pulled Maxwell away from the quarrelling teenagers. He'd quickly realized that the group was far too divided against itself to be trusted to stay on topic. He faced his former chief, gravely serious. "Maxwell, if ye're worried aboot yer family, ye've gottae get them away from here. Ah widnae trust ae city swarming with werewolves." Anderson paused while Maxwell digested this information. "Ah've got friends jist outside the city. Ye'd be safe there."

Maxwell thought long and hard. Finally, he looked up and Anderson and said, "Take the car and get Sue and Lucy out of here. Shawn and I will stay at the house with the others until you get back."

Anderson nodded. "Aye."

-XXXXX-

Zane hit the pause button on his monitor with a lazy gesture. He ran his tongue over his fangs, making sure he'd removed all the traces of his recent meal. The pristine, white-washed walls made his smooth, jet-black fur seem dirty, somehow, even though he was quite sure it was spotless. Zane never allowed himself to look unseemly, even after a fight. He wasn't one of THOSE werewolves.

He switched to the video communications mode on his computer, and his boss's faced filled the screen. "Maxwell's going to evacuate, Doctor," he reported. "Our spy in 'Frisco just sent me the feed. He's going to have Anderson drive his wife and daughter out of town."

"So he's running?" Zane's female superior asked disappointedly. "Pity. I expected more from him. Zane, this simply will not do."

"What are your orders, Doctor?" Zane asked. "Please send me in. I haven't had a mission in months."

The doctor smiled. "Of course; send him a message for me, dear. And I'd like you to deliver it personally..."


End file.
